


Don't say a word while we dance with the devil

by Vintagehoney



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, Its just very sexy and angsty, Javier Peña is a mess, Los Pepes - Freeform, M/M, Pacho Herrera is glamorous, Porn With Plot, Power Bottom, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25749391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vintagehoney/pseuds/Vintagehoney
Summary: In which Javier Peña partakes in a forbidden, sexual relationship with none other than Pacho Herrera- a Cali Cartel leader. Hot and heavy and, most of all, dangerous.
Relationships: Hélmer "Pacho" Herrera/Javier Peña
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	1. Can you make it feel like home if I tell you you’re mine

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Duke Dumont’s ‘Ocean Drive’
> 
> Chapter title inspired by Lana Del Rey’s ‘Born to Die’

Peña was desperate.  
Desperate to free himself from the bitter guilt that weighed on his shoulders like a constant, nagging burden. Desperate because of how miserably isolated he felt; alone on a barren, undisturbed terrain without another being in sight. Yet always feeling another’s stare burning into the back of his neck; always feeling like he was being observed and scrutinized by some invisible force. If he ran, the land would merely stretch further beneath his feet, unending and unrelenting.

How the fuck was he supposed to do this without Carrillo? Every effort of ending Escobar’s reinado del terror had immediately gone into a state of hopeless brooding and mourning when Carrillo’s death was reported. The days following the Colonel’s funeral felt like a dive deeper into stagnant waters that grew increasingly dark and murky as each uneventful day passed.  
At this point, Peña felt like he’d opened Pandora’s box for the second time. 

Nothing Murphy or Messina or even an undead Carrillo had to say could stop him from feeling accountable for fucking up the operation by leading them right into a trap. Not when their fiercest supporter and only cooperative Colombian military leader, Colonel Carrillo, was now idly rotting six feet under; all because of Peña. A good man was dead because of him. 

No. He couldn’t live like this. 

Peña wanted - no, needed - to repent. And that meant making a sacrifice on his part, even if it meant he’d fuck everything up for himself.

So, that fateful meeting with Don Berna, not unlike the many times they’d shared information for equally ambitious ends, amidst the warm, heady scent of Colombian coffee, opened another path for him. 

Berna was sweating as usual, with a layer of perspiration lining the strip of bare skin on top of his thick mustache. Peña couldn’t help but wonder why the man never wore shirts that strayed from his usual off-white color or why his brows seemed to perpetually remain bunched up together. At this point, his mind was too aimless to think of a new strategy or exchange information with Berna; or to deny Berna’s invitation to wherever the fuck he was taking him. 

Peña liked Berna in a way that you would be in favor of a business partner - if that’s what they were - with formality bordering a sense of mutual understanding and camaraderie. He knew that the man was too smart to do Peña any harm or to break his trust. 

He couldn’t say as much for Judy Moncada though. She was undoubtedly transparent. He could taste the acridity of her determination for revenge whenever he gazed into her eyes. Señora Moncada wouldn’t let him go so easily. He knew she would put up a fight before Peña could firmly decline her offer of allegiance. 

But did he want to decline it was the question. 

And it was immediately fueled, like a Wall-Street fucker after a snort of cocaine, when Carlos Castaño hit him right in the gut with his words of wisdom:

“No nos digamos mientidas. You haven’t been able to get close to him. The only play you had to get to him was through Carrillo. And we know how that ended right?” 

It wasn’t disappointment he saw in Moncada’s eyes when he bent over her and placed the tumbler back in a show of finality. No, it was smug triumph at having Peña knead the proposition around in his mind without immediately rejecting it. He wondered if she was right to assume she’d gotten through to him.

**************

As the days passed, it seemed that nobody at the base was willing to reconvene and plan their next move. Their operations were still clearly stagnant. And Peña couldn’t bear to drop another file on top of the growing pile on Carrillo’s desk. 

He stood in front of the late-Colonel’s desk for a minute, considering his options. On one hand, he had the DEA’s tactics, legally bound to Colombian legislation and it’s resulting bureaucracy, limply and bonelessly functioning without any legitimate progress; on the other, he had Berna’s offer, simmering wildly over the flame of a stove, willing and eager to pounce into action on the exact moment of his affirmation.  
It was, however, one glance at Carrillo’s old seat, cooling and decaying with disuse, that pushed him to make a decision. As fucked up as it was, they were clearly idling about the matter while Escobar’s imperio grew larger and stronger without a single disturbance. Peña couldn’t let things go on this way.  
He knew he had to find a way to shuffle the cards and restart the game. 

Peña just needed some answers first.

Loading up the SUV with half a dozen cheap beer bottles, he took off onto the dusty stretch of road that led him South. 

**************

Several hours bled away during the drive from Medellín to Cali. Rain battered the windscreen copiously and fogged up the shutters for most of the drive. Entranced by the soothing drum of rainfall and the all-too-familiar buzz of beer, Peña wondered if the rain was a sign of something. His abuelita was one for superstitions, but he always brushed them off as a child. Now, in need of some sense of direction, Peña almost regretted not keeping his abuelita’s sayings in mind. He was walking into this blindly and he had no fucking clue what to expect. 

It was almost midnight when he finally made it to Pacho Herrera’s home in Cali. The rainfall hadn’t even come close to stopping yet and, judging by the sporadic claps of thunder, would probably graduate to a storm soon. 

Peña was surprised to find that the mansion wasn’t as fortified with barriers and sicarios as he’d expected it to be. He had, however, heard of Cali’s investments towards technologically-advanced security and surveillance, and guessed that it had some influence. Or maybe they were just sheltered from the downpour.

While clutching his leather jacket with one hand and raising it over his head to shield himself from the rain, Peña snaked his other hand around his waist and gripped his gun for a moment. He took a few deep breaths to steady his racing mind and, when he eventually felt a semblance of stability, jogged up to the mansion.  
The vestibule, well-lit and ornately furnished, led to heavy, wooden doors that were closed, but unlocked. 

The interior of the house was lined in every corner with royal purple and dull gold fixtures and décor. The curtains were draped thickly against the frames of the large French windows, their ends lightly brushing the heavy carpet that stretched beneath his feet. He checked a few of the rooms nearest to the entryway and, after seeing no sign of Herrera, continued further into the mansion. 

Peña stopped dead in his tracks when he sensed a faint scent of cigarette smoke coming from an inner area and proceeded in its direction. With years of chain-smoking haunting him, he could sense the scent of nicotine like a hyena could smell and locate a carcass.

He did, in fact, have a clear understanding of Pacho Herrera’s appearance. Murphy contributed a lot to fine-tune the details that the black and white portraits in their files lacked - adding in small quirks of Herrera’s appearance and personality whenever he recalled them during their usual Thursday-night visits to the bar. Murphy had been, in a way, privileged to meet a Cali-cartel boss, especially given their clandestine reputations. 

He was met with an entryway to an elevated veranda, decked with a firm, glazed wooden floor, open to the outside from all sides and enclosed only by an ornate wooden railing. Considering how a storm was progressing outside, Peña almost didn’t step into the veranda because he couldn’t think of why anyone would lounge out amidst a storm. But then he reminded himself that Herrera was a narco, and that narcos were far from normal.

With one step inside, and an angling of his head to the left, he saw a shadow of a man in the darkness. Two steps in, the sky cast a momentary flash of light over the figure, vaguely showing Peña the the man he was looking for. He knew the beer hadn’t worn off of him yet because his vision was still as partly-clouded as his mind.  
Three steps in, the man turned around, his face now clearly visible due to the light that escaped the inside of the mansion. 

Herrera stood leaning against the wooden railing, looking perfectly calm and postured despite the intrusion of Peña. He wore a white linen shirt, loosely tucked into a pair of grey woolen trousers. Herrera’s hair looked, predictably, windswept from the cold gusts of air that occasionally billowed through. The cigarette between his fingers burned quickly as the wind swept away its trail of smoke. 

“Ah, Agente Peña. I don’t recall inviting you here. Why have you suddenly decided to..... grace me with your presence? Especially on a night like this?” he gestured mildly towards the downpour outside. 

“I’ll just get straight to the point. I know you have a part to play in this new plan that Judy Moncada proposed to me. Hell, you were probably the one to orchestrate it. But what I want to know is the reason you chose me to help you. Because I sure as fucking hell know that Berna, Moncada or the Castaños wouldn’t have done so.” 

“How perceptive of you. I suppose the reason was quite.... philosophical in a way. We just didn’t think Agent Murphy had the incentive to work for us.”

“And what incentive do you think I have that Murphy doesn’t?” 

When he didn’t answer immediately, Peña strode right up to Herrera and stood directly in front him. He wondered how the Cali godfather looked so nonchalant, leaning against the railing, with his back to the storm outside, despite the piercing cold onslaught of rain and Peña’s own presence before him. 

When Herrera chose to take another deep drag from his withering cigarette instead of answering Peña, he took two steps forward, intending on pressing him into answering. 

Peña realized, with a tinge of self-consciousness, that Herrera was a few inches taller than him. It made him feel dwarfed, fueling his irritation. At the same time, the intoxicating scent of cigarette-smoke made Peña’s nicotine-deprived head spin. He suddenly wished he hadn’t downed all those beers on the way there. 

Raising an eyebrow in mild amusement, Herrera parted his lips to release soft curls of expired smoke from his lungs. He slowly dragged his gaze up and down Peña’s body; not in condescension, but in intrigue, as far as Peña could tell through the darkness. 

Peña, knowing that he was trying to get on his nerves, closed in further, leaving only a few inches between him and Herrera. He could now practically taste the blend of nicotine and sweet scotch in Herrera’s breath. 

“Since you insist.....” Herrera purred in a low tone before discarding the remnants of the cigarette that had begun to burn into his fingers. 

“Agente Peña, you are sure to have realized the vulnerable position you were in after Colonel Carrillo’s death. The reason you were so valuable to us was because vulnerable people like yourself are..... pliable. I’ll admit that we made a mistake by pursuing Murphy for our earlier endeavors. He just wasn’t in the right mentality to be persuaded. But here you are, confused and directionless, looking for some semblance of guidance. Or possibly even a reason to not break the boundaries that withhold you from pursuing the drastic measures we’ve presented. Now, I don’t exactly know what incentive drives you - maybe its revenge. But, right now, you’d risk everything to fix the problems around you; possibly under the belief that you’re accountable in some way.”  
“We were merely helping you accomplish our shared goal,” he added with a polite smile.

Peña was, in all honesty, stunned by this revelation; by the truth of what he’d become over his time in Colombia. He had truly lost autonomy over his actions - so much so that even people like Herrera had noticed. And the only person who managed to bring stability to the quaking earth beneath his feet was now dead. He couldn’t manage to swallow down how much he’d spiraled out of control; or rather how easily he’d allowed it to happen. Peña was admittedly a proud man. He didn’t have much to be proud of, but he had enough pride to convince himself of his stable personal well-being. Herrera’s “observation” was a punch in the gut and it frustrated Peña that he hadn’t realized it himself. 

It made him feel vulnerable and exposed in a way he’d never felt before. 

He stared up at Herrera who remained as calm and serene as he had been when he first saw Peña - except his eyes were now focused on Peña’s face, trying to read his expressions. There was a tinge of pity in his molten bronze stare, made clear by the frequent flashes of electricity above them. Or maybe it was satirical amusement. Either way, it was an emotion Peña wasn’t proud of having provoked. 

Booming claps of thunder now cracked between dark clouds and reverberated through the air; accompanied by blinding flashes of crackling light. The continuous drum of rain had now become white noise to their ears. 

Herrera had, by then, leaned his slender body forward towards Peña. The wind that billowed between them swept off a few longer strands of Herrera’s hair, brushing them lightly against Peña’s cheek. The air around them was cold and wet, carrying needle-like raindrops that pierced into Peña’s skin and made him shiver the closer he got to Herrera and the boundary of the veranda.

Herrera’s gaze burned through every layer of Peña’s skin, cutting through muscle and bone. There was something in it that Peña found difficult to decipher. 

He didn’t like feeling disarmed this way; transparent, like his mind was as legible as any book. Being oblivious to Herrera’s thoughts merely worsened Peña’s frustrations as he stared back, jaw tightened, contemplating his next move. 

Licking the corner of his lips, Herrera tilted his head slightly, looking up at Peña through his long lashes; eyes glimmering with amusement despite the descending, imperious curve of his lips. Peña swallowed thickly. 

“Well?” Herrera purred, his face mere inches away from Peña’s.

Without skipping a beat, Peña gripped Herrera’s jaw and captured his lips in a rough, hungry kiss like a starved animal relishing a fresh carcass. Herrera didn’t seem too surprised as he merely gasped, parting his lips, allowing Peña to deepen the kiss and press him further back onto the railing; their bodies now becoming soaked with precipitation. 

Peña groaned into Herrera’s mouth when he felt the Cali godfather’s warm mouth sucking indulgently on his tongue. Herrera trailed his hand down to massage Peña’s hardening cock through the fabric of his jeans; a low moan escaping Peña’s lips when he felt slender fingers caressing teasingly at his clothed cock. 

They momentarily pulled back from each other, gasping heavily for air through swollen lips, before Herrera latched onto Peña’s plump lower lip, sucking and biting into the flesh. Peña placed sloppy kisses down Herrera’s bearded jaw and along the long expanse of his neck, sucking fervently into the delicate skin as the other man tilted his neck to allow more access. Herrera hissed out a moan as Peña bit into the sensitive flesh, making bruises blossom along the trail of his lips. 

Peña was lathering his tongue over the bite-marks on Herrera’s collarbone when the other man gained the upper hand as he pressed himself onto Peña, pushing him backwards until his back hit the adjacent wall. Moaning throatily, Peña arched his back when Herrera unzipped his jeans and pulled his aching cock into his palm, stroking it in a practiced, ungodly pace. Peña closed his eyes, taking strangled breaths as Herrera worked masterfully on his cock while placing wet kisses onto the crook of his neck. 

Licking his lips, Herrera descended down to face the pulsing phallus, pressing teasing kisses onto the swollen cockhead. 

“Fucking putas. Stop teasing and get on with it,” growled Peña.

Herrera gave a low chuckle before he latched his moist lips onto Pena’s throbbing cock, sucking fervently as he slid his warm tongue along the slit. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Peña gripped Herrera’s head, fingers digging into his scalp as Herrera hummed deeply while swallowing him down. 

In the few ensuing minutes, Peña completely lost track of where he was and who he was with as he sunk deeper into the warm, wet mouth that gripped him like a molten-hot vice; the hairs lining Herrera’s upper lip scraping softly against Peña’s cock. 

It didn’t take much longer for him to reach his climax as he thrusted desperately into Herrera, gripping his silky hair firmly; knuckles white with tension. Moaning deeply, Peña came, coating Herrera’s throat with cum that he swallowed down with ease - his adam’s apple bobbing along the column of his neck. 

Peña was still gasping for air when Herrera straightened up, slightly breathless, and gestured towards the inside of the mansion. 

“Vamos Agente Peña. We’re not done here until you fuck me raw.” 

**************

It was intoxicating.

Warm flesh, in a sinful, saccharine embrace; ragged breaths and perspiration-soaked bodies. 

Every thrust deep into Herrera’s welcoming body felt like the last; the inferno within reaching the precipice of boiling over. 

Peña felt invigorated, if only momentarily. Sex was almost a coping mechanism to him. To be lost in the heat of the moment; not a worry permeating his guilty, tormented conscience. It made him feel alive. 

It made him feel alone. 

He drove back to Medellín in the dead of the night, his mind engulfed in the same unconscious trance as that of the drive earlier to Cali. 

When a mildly-hungover and exhausted Peña woke up many hours past noon on the following day, all he could think of, despite his reluctance to recall, was how there wasn’t a single second of the latter parts of that night - when they were both entrenched in a carnal delirium - during which their eyes met. The pools of molten bronze that lit up Herrera’s hard, calculating gaze were unavailable even when Peña gripped his arching back and pulled him closer, biting down on the unblemished skin of his shoulder. 

There was not one point during that night when either man grappled for a weapon or flung a fist at the other. Many years later, it still confounded Peña that Herrera had left him unscathed. Peña merely trudged back to his vehicle, careful not to cast a glance back at the body of the man sprawled on the lush carpet of one of his many drawing rooms. 

Later, he would wonder if Herrera had been casting the same scorching gaze on his departing form; waiting for Peña to turn around and meet his eyes. 

**************


	2. One more time for my taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more time for my taste  
> See me fall from your eyes to your waist  
> One more time for my taste,   
> Drink this wine from your sweet, from your case  
> -Rhye: Taste
> 
> Summary: Peña had it coming after the Fernando Duque situation. Orgasm denial and power bottom themes *wink wink*
> 
> Warning: Slight mentions of rape, murder and gang-violence in Mexico

The Carlos Holguin Academy was rarely ever quiet. There were always people bustling around within the periphery of Peña’s sight, much to his annoyance. The reptilian glares that Messina shot towards him as she passed by only made things worse when he knew that she was right to be on his ass for delaying work. 

He was still finishing up on an overdue report, a cigarette burning away between his fingers and innocently spilling ashes into the tumbler of whiskey that sat untouched beside Peña’s rattling typewriter. He could hear Trujillo and a few other Search Bloc troops laughing heartily as they humored themselves over Murphy’s futile attempts at stringing a sentence together in Spanish. As of late, the Search Bloc had been relinquished of their work as more and more of Escobar’s sicarios were found mysteriously butchered in the streets of Medellin. It was a relieving sight to see them happy for once; freed of the unending grief of seeing their comrades die every day. 

But as much as Peña credited himself for ending the weekly murders of dozens of innocent policemen, he wondered if he had gone too far in allowing Los Pepes so much freedom. The ordeal that followed the escape of Fernando Duque, Escobar’s lawyer, was something he was still unsettled by. As evil and dishonorable as it is to be associated with a genocidal maniac like Pablo Escobar, he could never excuse himself for letting Duque’s unaffiliated family members be murdered in cold blood. The trunk of Duque’s car was not something he ever wanted to remember again. And the thought of having withheld information from, and betrayed, his new allies so soon after their arrangement still filled him with bone-chilling dread and fear. He knew the risks of an allegiance with the cartels but he never intended on giving them total power over their agreements.

It was classic quid-pro-quo, and Peña hoped that it was enough to keep things stable after he dealt with Trujillo’s affiliation with Los Pepes. 

He only noticed he’d stopped typing, in favor of brooding, when he noticed Murphy concentrating his gaze at him from Trujillo’s desk. Peña knew that Murphy, with his brows furrowed and a questioning look on his face, was looking at him out of concern. After he revealed his association with Los Pepes to Murphy, all he had received were warnings and concerned stares. Although Peña assured Murphy time and time again that no blame would be directed his way if his own association with Los Pepes was ever discovered by the DEA, Peña couldn’t deny how much he appreciated Murphy’s unconditional concern for his wellbeing. He complied and kept his distance, but also kept a close eye on how Peña was doing. 

It made him feel protected and looked out for - if only for a moment. 

After what he assumed was a most-likely unconvincing smile towards Murphy’s direction, Peña refocused himself on the typewriter, hoping that Murphy wouldn’t approach him for further questioning. He really wasn’t in the mood to give explanations. 

His mind, however, had its own agenda as he failed to aim his concentration on the report. It was almost gripping onto any thought that crossed by and presenting it to Peña for consideration.

Peña assumed it was his body’s way of preventing him from thinking too much about Duque and, consequently, taxing himself even more. 

Peña had lost his belief in God many years ago while visiting his father’s hometown in rural Mexico. In broad daylight, he witnessed the mutilated body of a young boy, no older than the age of eight, crusting over with blood that dried quickly under the scorching afternoon sun. The town’s coroner later declared that the boy - the child - had been raped and discarded after two stabs to the gut and trauma to the head. But what truly struck Peña was the apathy with which the townspeople, and his own father, responded. It was almost like they’d merely seen a dead rat on the sidewalk; invisible to human eyes and impermeable to the human soul. 

As much as Peña had comprehended how fortunate he was to have been brought up in the U.S. of A, he never would have thought the violence in Mexico went as far as to make its dwellers numb to it. 

It was the epitome of the inhumane. 

And no God or divine being that exists could entrench humans in such numbing misery.

Peña almost knocked himself off of his chair when the telephone right beside him blared it’s trilling, metallic tone straight into his ears. 

“This is Agent Peña,” he grunted wearily. 

“Ahh que paso Peña?” drawled our the unmistakable voice of Navegante, Cali’s underbaked-beefcake of a sicario. 

Peña had to bite his cheek to stop himself from berating the man on the line. He had made it very clear to Berna that he wanted no direct contact from Los Pepes through official phone lines.

Dragging his free hand down his face, he muttered out with an irritated bite to his tone, “What do you want?”

“Patron wants to talk to you today,” he replied with a hint of amusement. Peña could practically hear the smirk on Navegante’s pale, puffy face. 

“Can I know which patron you’re referring to?”

“Don Pacho, por supuesto” 

Por supuesto. It had barely been a week since their previous encounter and he wanted to meet again. Peña knew that this time there was little to no chance of being as “amiable” as before. He had expected blowback from the Duque betrayal and knew that this was probably it. 

“What if I say I don’t want to?” 

Navegante chuckled briefly before quipping, “I think you’re smarter than that.” 

Peña had been on the line for a while now and knew that he was only moments away from catching Murphy’s mildly-inebriated attention. 

“Alright,” he sighed, “tell me the location.” 

**************

Fortunately for Peña, Herrera had made his way to Medellin for a football match that was scheduled to occur a few hours later. 

So, after a fifteen minute long drive to a hotel in downtown Medellin that reeked of white-collar plutocracy and grandiosity, he was received by Navegante at the entrance. The man was, of course, dressed in his usual eccentric “golfer-detective-grandpa” style, with a thick sweater vest and a hat that obscured his beady eyes. Peña itched to pluck out the toothpick wedged between Navegante’s teeth as he escorted him up to Herrera’s room.

It took Peña a few minutes to navigate through the ridiculously large suite and reach the master bedroom. Herrera didn’t notice his arrival - or rather acted like he didn’t. He was seemingly preoccupied with the task of staring out the glass panels that formed the exterior wall of the room, and drinking in the view of Medellin.

Without a single glance or movement towards Peña’s direction, Herrera acknowledged him in a dangerously low tone, “I hope you know why you were asked to come here.”

Peña sighed heavily.

“Yeah, I have a pretty decent guess.....  
I won’t deny that I breached our agreements when I hid Fernando Duque. But I also understand that Berna and the Castaños went way too far when they found out..... It can’t go on like this.” 

“You do realize that the whole debacle was your fault, right? You hindered our progress, so we disturbed your heroic conscience,” he scoffed in reply. 

That got Peña fuming. Just weeks ago, Judy Moncada was almost begging him for a share of his information. 

But now he’s suddenly an expendable?

Peña regretted not downing the tumbler of whisky sitting on his desk - or even the whole fucking bottle - before departing. He knew he had to play it cool even thought he ached to release his frustrations out on Herrera. 

“What exactly do you want? An apology? For me to make some regrettable action that you can laugh at later?” he bit out.

That got Herrera striding towards him, with his eyes hard-set on Peña. He was wrapped loosely in a long, deep-maroon hued silk robe that was tied around his waist; the flat expanse of his chest exposed and sporting freckles that Peña hadn’t noticed before. He did, in fact, seem more tanned; bronzed skin dotted with a light splash of freckles across most of the sun-exposed regions of his body. Football practice, Peña recalled, was probably the reason, especially on account of the crisp, ironed-out kit that was laid out on the edge of the bed. 

“I know you’re smart enough not to continue irritating temperamental people like the Castaños by denying them new victims, but I’m warning you not to suddenly have a change of heart and play the martyr again. There will be consequences that neither of us would be in favor of incurring.”

Herrera’s jaw was set stiffly, although his teeth didn’t seem to be clenched to show his fury. 

But Peña, being the cocky bastard he was, took his chances.

“What consequences would those be?” 

All he received was a slight tilt of Herrera’s head as he stared deeply into his eyes, as if examining Peña’s mortal soul for the ounce of stupidity that prompted him to continue provoking. 

“Take a seat,” he ordered with a composed, emotionless tone that Peña hadn’t anticipated. Herrera gestured towards the high-back, slightly reclined armchair that sat imperiously, in all its opulently upholstered glory, at the other end of the room. 

Peña did. Surprising himself by not fearing the worst. He knew that Medellin was definitely not Cali’s turf to control. But these days money could buy the silence of even the most powerful men. So killing Peña was a plausible strategy. 

At the same time, he had a strong feeling that he wasn’t going to meet his end that day. At least, not in the conventional way. 

Sinking himself down into the armchair, Peña closely watched Herrera’s next few moves; not that they were remotely threatening. 

The Cali godfather sauntered towards the tray of carved crystal decanters holding burnt-caramel toned whiskey and, took four heavy draughts of the contents of one, straight out of the container. 

Peña felt his cock stir in his jeans as he watched two golden rivulets of whisky trail down Herrera’s throat after escaping the latch of his lips around the decanter. 

His mind was flooded with memories of that one night at Herrera’s mansion. In the days that passed, Peña had felt like their previous encounter was merely a fever-dream; too surreal to ever be true. Yet, his recollections now manifested in a solid, entirely visceral form that made it feel so real.

He looked back up to see Herrera watching him from the corner of his eyes. He looked undeniably captivating and radiant in the mid-day sunlight; the molten bronze of his eyes now reflecting the light of the sun in a more burnt-gold tone that complemented the copper glow of his sun-bathed hair. 

Neither of them exchanged a single word in the few minutes that passed as Peña observed the other man openly and intently. 

Herrera shifted himself back towards the outside view for a few minutes, in a move that Peña could only decipher as being a moment of contemplation. 

But before he could read further into the situation, Herrera turned around and, with a sure stride, came forward to capture Peña’s lips in a kiss. He was bent over Peña’s seated figure, with one hand cradling the back of Peña’s head and the other kneading the tenting denim of his jeans. Herrera’s tongue was tainted with the warm, smoky burn of scotch, softly glazing and intermingling in Peña’s open mouth as he drank in the sweet flavor. It was uncharacteristically soft for someone who seemed irritated just a few minutes ago. 

But he pulled back. As soon as Peña’s arms regained consciousness and felt mobile enough to attempt to pull Herrera closer, the other man drew back, gasping for air while pinning Peña down with one arm. 

“Hands on the armrest. Don’t touch me until I allow you to,” he commanded firmly, but without malice.

Smoothening his hair back and sitting on his heels, Herrera immediately began working on Peña. 

The same moist, warm cavern of a mouth engulfed Peña’s length and had him writhing in pure, unadulterated pleasure with each sharp suck and swipe of tongue. The heat of whiskey burned gently into the skin of Peña’s cock, adding to the momentum of his imminent orgasm, as Herrera sucked with tireless vigor. 

Herrera had now graduated to swallowing down Peña’s whole length; mouth like a vice around his cock as his heavy tongue stroked the sensitive underside of its length. His slender fingers were massaging into the slackened flesh of Peña’s inner thighs. Through all this, Herrera was watching Peña carefully through the fan of his eyelashes, with what looked like an expression of smug amusement to Peña, through his pleasure-blurred, frenzied vision. 

The man seated on the armchair choked its armrests in a brutal, frantic grip; his clipped nails digging viciously into the plush fabric. Peña knew his body was almost at the precipice of the cliff that dropped down to his orgasm; Herrera fueling the fire by humming onto the length, prompting shockwaves of pleasure that forced Peña’s hips to cant up in desperation. 

But then he stopped.

He withdrew completely even as Peña almost whimpered when Herrera’s mouth dislodged and arms drew back. 

He sat back on his heels, lazingly stroking his own erect length without paying an ounce of attention to Peña’s devastated form.

This was cruel. 

Maybe he wanted him to finish off alone? 

So Peña loosened his grip on the thoroughly abused armrests and moved to console his aching, pre-cum leaking cock by himself. 

“Are you really daring me to tie your arms down?” Herrera questioned, with his brows raised in sadistic triumph. 

Oh fuck no. 

This was payback for messing up.

As “sex-obsessed” as Murphy accused Peña of being on a repeated hourly basis, he had never been through such suffering during the act. Herrera was on a whole other league of expertise. 

And he knew his dumbass should have expected this. 

So he grudgingly pulled his arms back to their former position, breathing gradually returning to a steady rate as his cock began to soften at the lack of attention it received. 

But then Herrera reclaimed Peña’s cock - knowing very well that he was still hard enough to continue but soft enough to have had his orgasmic inferno thawed out. 

They picked up where they left off, but at a more hurried pace. This time, Herrera was moaning deeply onto Peña’s length and sucking frantically due to his own impending orgasm. Hair had fallen thickly over his eyes but neither of them seemed concerned enough to brush it aside. 

The balance of Peña’s mind was soon overpowered as it tipped over the edge with the sheer power of his long-awaited orgasm. The momentum had reached its peak, making Peña crash back down as the white-hot flame of pleasure possessed him. He cried out as he came into the painful vice of Herrera’s mouth; now impossibly tight around Peña’s length due to the onslaught of his own orgasm. 

Herrera rose back up, panting heavily, with his hair disheveled and robe loose around his waist. 

It didn’t take too long for them to compose themselves. While Peña was still entranced in the afterglow of a powerful orgasmic high, Herrera had moved on to prep the both of them with copious amounts of lubricant and a condom. 

Peña only returned to a more conscious state when he felt Herrera stroking and tugging his cock back to life before sheathing and lubricating it. 

He watched Herrera disrobe with an unmasked expression of desire, dragging his eyes down his unclothed, intricately carved body and drinking it in in a way that he wasn’t able to during their previous, more rushed encounter. Herrera had strong, muscular legs despite the leanness of his upper body - which now sported a light spray of freckles that complemented his bronzed skin. 

Straddling Peña’s lap, Herrera sunk down onto the erect cock that begged to be touched and, began to build a steady rhythm with his thrusts; one arm holding the back of the armchair for support while the other gripped the curve of Peña’s neck. The DEA agent was, in fact, using all of his willpower to stop himself from moving his arms off of the armrest and digging them into Herrera’s hips to make him increase the pace of his thrusts. 

Herrera didn’t seem to be in a mood for mercy yet, as he rolled his hips slowly and expertly in a steady rhythm against Peña’s lap. It was a rhythm that built up to be as excruciatingly slow and measured as the pause earlier. 

As he felt his orgasm building, Peña thrusted up into Herrera’s body, in the opposite pace, effectively doubling the number of thrusts. Herrera didn’t seem to be too concerned. But he did angle himself to aim Peña’s cock at the sweet spot within him; the new, electrifying jolts of pleasure eliciting loud gasps and moans from him. 

Seeing Herrera consumed in such intense ecstasy with his head arched back urged Peña into action. He shifted his upper body forward, balancing his weight on his arms - which were, by the way, still glued to the armrests - as he began nipping and kissing along the ravishingly inviting expanse of Herrera’s neck, until he reached one of his dusty-pink nipples. Lathering his tongue over the nub of Herrera’s sensitive nipple made the other man groan and clench down on Peña’s cock, reciprocating the new ministration. 

Herrera bent back down towards Peña and kissed him fervently, carding his fingers through Peña’s sweat-drenched hair. He finally - Peña couldn’t stress the word finally enough - finally, tugged Peña’s arms off of the armrest and let them wrap around his body, pulling their bodies together and moving them in sync with the rhythm of their thrusts. 

Herrera was the first to reach his climax, voice cracking into a silent scream mid-moan as he contracted himself around Peña’s cock tightly enough to propel the other man into an explosive orgasm as well. It was only mere moments later that they slumped down onto each others’ thoroughly-spent, sweat-slicked bodies. 

There were no words exchanged between the two men as Peña parted; the final moment of fleeting contact, during which their eyes met momentarily before Herrera shifted himself off of Peña’s body, still burning into his mind. 

Peña knew he would be a fool to have seen a semblance of softness in Herrera’s eyes at that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, I was feeling cheeky and having a classic bout of shits-and-giggles while writing the parts with Navegante. But I’d like to make it known that I love Navegante’s weird, dough-ball ass and his exceptional fashion sense. 
> 
> Also, the “losing faith in god” bit will become relevant in the future. But it’s nothing too important 
> 
> **Please excuse my Asian ass’s shitty Spanish skills. I try.**

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate constructive criticism :)))


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